Fever
by medcat
Summary: Written for weekend writing prompt in Watson's Woes LJ community and is an expansion of KCS's sentence #35--Fever. Now revised and completed!
1. Chapter 1

KCS's sentence: #035 – Fever

When Watson sent round a note to Baker Street, informing them he had treated a highly contagious patient and would therefore be spending the night in his surgery, London's keenest observer took no more than one glance at the increasingly shaky penmanship before bellowing out the second-story window to startle a passing cabbie.

* * *

I collapsed onto my consulting-room couch shortly after sending the note, and I did not think I would have the strength to get up again. A snippet of knowledge from a long-ago anatomy class came to my mind unbidden—the human body contains 206 bones and 656 to 850 muscles (depending on which expert you consult)—and I swear, every one of these hundreds of bones and muscles was aching. My lower back, particularly, felt as if it were on fire—or as if someone had stabbed it with a knife and was twisting it in the wound.

I was congratulating myself on having sent the note while I still was capable of it, when the door unceremoniously burst open and Holmes strode across the room to kneel at the side of my couch. He regarded me with his usual sharp scrutiny; I was aware that I was shaking, flushed with fever, and biting my lips to contain my groans.

"Leave immediately!" I exclaimed with as much force as I could muster.

"Why?"

"Because I've no wish to infect you."

He winced. "Do you suppose such a consideration weighs with me for an instant?"

"But it weighs very much with me," I insisted.

"Very well, Doctor. Do you know what your ailment is?"

"Unfortunately, yes, I do. It is smallpox."

"Smallpox?" he repeated incredulously. "Are you quite certain?"

"Yes," I sighed.

"My apologies, Watson; that was a foolish question on my part."

"Watson," he resumed after a brief pause, "what was it you intended to do when you sent me that note?"

"I was going to remain here while I considered how best to avoid exposing you."

"Well then. I voluntarily throw in _my_ lot with _you_ this time. Please do not argue with me--you are in no condition to remain here, in any case."

"Human life is very precarious anyway…" I argued wearily nonetheless. "All it takes is five minutes…as I have good cause to know as a result of my professional work; and even you, with all your gifts and brilliance with which you are endowed, cannot change that…"

"Pray spare me your fatalism at present, Doctor," he said firmly. "We have more immediate concerns."

"Watson," he resumed. "What are your current symptoms?"

"The usual ones for the prodromal stage of smallpox…splitting headache, high fever, low back myalgia, exhaustion…"

"You'll pardon me, Doctor, but are you quite certain it is smallpox and not something more benign? Granted, I'm no physician, but all the symptoms you just listed are non-specific and if you were just exposed today, this seems to have developed unusually rapidly…"

I had to shield my eyes from the light of the candle, weak though it was, before I could answer…my headache was growing worse and I was feeling increasingly ill.

"I was treating a smallpox patient at the hospital two weeks ago…He coughed directly in my face. Two weeks is the average incubation period for smallpox and all the symptoms match. I shall become contagious in another two to four days…" I trailed off, resuming with an effort. The lethargy was worsening; even speaking was growing difficult. "I had hoped I was protected after the vaccination I've had just a few months ago…"

Holmes, having been observing me all this while, could hardly avoid noticing my worsening condition.

"I understand, Doctor. Don't talk anymore; I've a cab waiting outside and since you say you are not yet contagious, we shan't expose anyone else by taking you home."

"But Holmes…" I managed to rouse myself enough to speak. "What about Mrs. Hudson? Or yourself, for that matter, two to four days from now? Even though you've both been vaccinated at the same time I was, as you see, that is no guarantee…"

"We shall cross that bridge when we come to it," he insisted, masterful as ever. "Now, let's see about getting you home. Can you stand?"

"I shall try…not too certain I'll succeed."

"May I assist you?"

"Please," I murmured, feeling simply too ill now to maintain any pretense.

As it turned out, I was barely able to stand; Holmes had to support most of my weight during the brief walk to the cab. The ride itself is rather hazy in my memory; all I remember is trying—and mostly failing--to refrain from moaning each time the cab lurched.

Next thing I knew, I found myself in Holmes's bed, with him sitting beside me, my hand enclosed in his. The time appeared to be late evening, and I was vaguely thinking…

It was not death I dreaded but blindness…to be helpless, relying on others for everyday things…especially for a physician and a writer…would I ever be able to write or practice medicine again if that were to happen?

Holmes seemed to read my mind as was often his wont, for he pressed my hand more tightly.

"Try to sleep, my dear fellow. It will make the time pass faster, and I daresay you must be exhausted."

"I confess I am," I whispered. "Will you also get some rest?"

"Yes, I shall. And whatever happens, we will see it out together, I promise you that."

"Thank you," I smiled, closing my eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: here's the next part! Thanks to everyone who read; especial thanks to everyone who's reviewed! :)

* * *

The next few days are rather nebulous in my memory. I remember feeling, on more than one occasion, that I was trapped in a burning building and crying out for help…only to find a firm hand clasping my shoulder and to hear Holmes's steady voice, "It's only a fever dream, old fellow, go back to sleep." "_You_ are telling _me_ to sleep? Now _that_ is something novel,' I muttered on one such occasion, and saw him give a small smile, before I slipped back into my feverish dreams.

I know Holmes sent Mrs. Hudson away at my frenzied insistence. He, however, refused to leave, no matter what arguments I employed. He also refused point-blank to send me to the hospital. I made a mental note to ask him regarding that when (I hoped) I would be feeling better—his dislike of hospitals appeared to be so intense that it was bordering on phobia.

About four days after Holmes brought me home, my temperature fell to almost normal, and Holmes could not hide his jubilation over that fact. However, I was compelled to grimly point out that transient defervescence was an usual phenomenon in smallpox just before the eruption of the rash…and of course, I was vindicated in my statement.

The vesicles appeared in my mouth and throat first, then spread in the centrifugal pattern, as they always do; my fever went back up. A day or two after that occurred, I opened my eyes early one morning to find Holmes watching me apprehensively, as if I might disappear at any moment. I tried to give him a reassuring smile (failing miserably in the attempt, I'll warrant) and then…I don't know what possessed me to speak my thoughts out loud; I can only say in my defense that I was near-delirious with fever at the time.

I whispered, "I confess death holds little terror for me any longer…had a few narrow escapes over the years…"

"Please…don't…" his voice was barely audible.

"It's all right, Holmes," I hastened to modify my statement, seeing—or, rather, hearing--his reaction to it. "Don't look so scared…it's not as bad as it seems."

I heard him snort, no doubt because I quoted his own words upon another occasion back to him.

Then I heard him sigh, "Bad enough…"

"No," I insisted. "The vaccination worked after all, you see. My symptoms aren't that severe."

I sought to lighten the moment. "And as to narrow escapes, have I ever told you about the time when the window crashed down upon my instructor and myself?"

"No, not that I recall," he responded with a small laugh.

"Ah. Remind me to tell you of it when I feel better…right now, I'm about to lose my voice altogether."

"I certainly shall."

The next few days are equally vague in my memory; I recall only random snatches. I was aware of Anstruther making daily house calls…and of a girl who's recently had smallpox (and was therefore immune to it) coming for a few hours every day to clean the house and to cook simple meals, as I was too ill, and Holmes too worried (not that he'd ever admit the fact) to eat much.

Finally, early one morning, about two weeks after I fell ill, I awakened feeling more like myself than I have in these last fourteen days. While I still felt extremely weak and the scabbing pustules itched horribly, I no longer felt feverish and my mind was clear. Best of all, I realized that my eyesight was unimpaired. Holmes was slumped in the chair at my bedside, obviously worn out by his lengthy vigil over me. I smiled softly and closed my eyes again; there would be time enough later to talk to him.


End file.
